


funerals

by myrosebudboy



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:56:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6723076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrosebudboy/pseuds/myrosebudboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's exactly what the title says. lucy's, natasha's, davy's, ebb's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	funerals

Lucy’s funeral is quiet. Too quiet. Only two people are in attendance - a whimpering baby boy swaddled in white blankets, and a man, face heavily lined with stress and fatigue.

There is nothing to say. There is no one to mourn. They’re tucked away in a secluded part of the country, in the middle of a small forest. Far away from people, from watford, from the hustle and bustle of daily life and the incessant honking of cars on the road. Far away from home. And he does’t tell anyone, because what use would that be? Killed in childbirth. What will they say? That she was weak? That their child is cursed? That he himself is a curse?

A disgrace. She’s a disgrace. The only clear thought that forms in his mind is this, splattered across his thoughts like graffiti sprawling across an abandoned brick wall. They were supposed to make a triumphant return, with the chosen one, with him, the saviour of them all, and her, shining and beautiful and radiant and exactly what the wife of a hero should be. But instead? She lies there, unmoving, pale, marble, still.

The sky is clear today, and he tips his head back, looking at it. It reminds him of her eyes. Stunningly blue. Stunningly alive.

(Now, though, her eyelids are closed, almost like she’s fast asleep, and he’ll never see their blue again.)

The little baby boy flails in his arms, and he rocks him gently from side to side.

“It’s okay, Chosen One,” he whispers, his voice laced with grief. “You’ll be all right.”

She ran away - from her destiny, from their destiny. She left him just like that.

It isn’t lying. Not really. It’s just six words from the truth.

(Later, when the baby boy is fast asleep for his afternoon nap, he sends her up in flames, the smoke spiralling up into the sky. And he shouldn’t, because she’s a disgrace to him and his name, but he weeps silently for the girl he loved.)

-

Natasha’s funeral is grand and gilded and gold. The walls of the hall stand high and solemn, the chapel of Watford polished to gleaming wood and shining windows. The pews are filled with mages - students, parents, professors of Watford. Everyone wants to pay their respects to one of the greatest headmasters Watford has ever known.

The professors sit silently in a row, because yet another headmaster is dead and gone, and soon it will be their turn. The students murmur softly among themselves, sharing memories of her, her power, her quick wit during school speeches, her efficient implementation of any improvement she deemed the school required. They speak of her bravery, the front page of the paper from the previous day still fresh in their minds. Of how she whirled into the nursery full of vampires, a pillar of flame, and struck them down. Of how she defended as many as she could, single-handedly. Of how she burned and burned and burned like she was fire itself. Of how she sent herself up in flames, just to protect them all.

“She was a great woman,” one student whispers, and others nod their agreement, heads bowed, hands clasped on their laps.

“It must be awful for her family,” someone else says quietly. The front pew of the chapel only holds her husband. Her young son is unwell, they say, and will be unable to attend the funeral. People whisper that he was attacked by the vampires, and the reason why Natasha threw herself into the fray with such vengeance. But can you imagine, not attending the funeral of your mother? Never getting a chance to say goodbye, waking up one day to realise that you’ll never see her again?

Later, they file out of the chapel, some with handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes, some with eyes permanently pinned to the floor. Her husband is last, eyes hard, lips firmly pressed together. If there is one thing the Grimms and the Pitches have in common, it is their pride. He will not let a single tear fall, not until he goes home and shuts every single door.

(He cleans and he cleans and he cleans, but he can never quite get her out of the house. In the end, he replaces their bed with a bed meant for only one, because it is too much for him to bear.)

Most of Watford’s headmasters are buried. But Natasha is - was - a Pitch, one of the strongest of her line. So her husband takes exactly three steps forward, and everyone else turns away, and the heat of the fire sears their backs. Power, even in death.

Far away, back in Hampshire, little Basilton Pitch whimpers in his sleep, tugging the blankets a little closer.

-

It’s a bright, clear day, and the entire student population of Watford is gathered outside. Rows upon rows of chairs line the grounds, and two bodies lie in front of them all, white sheets gently placed over each of them.

It’s not very clear who they are here to mourn. Ebb, who almost none of them knew, or the Mage, clearly the villain, but who all of them knew?

The entire student population of Watford is gathered outside, along with the members of the magickal community who wish to pay their respects. They whisper, rumours flying, how Simon Snow caused it. How Agatha Wellbelove ran away because of it. How the Pitch boy orchestrated it all. Their eyes flick back and forth between the bodies and the two boys, whispering and whispering and whispering, poison seeping through the air.

(Simon doesn’t notice. Baz glares back.)

Who do you mourn? The hero who sacrificed herself trying to defend you, or the headmaster who has defended you for years and years? How do you feel sadness for someone you never knew? How do you feel happiness for the death of a villain, for are they both not deaths? And yet, how can you not?

They speak of the Mage’s reforms, his achievements, his contributions to the World of Mages. They don’t acknowledge his wrongs, his ruthlessness, his cruelty, because how do you honour a hero who almost brought everyone to their knees?

(Ebb gets three lines, because how do you honour a hero who never tried to make a name for herself?)

It’s a quiet funeral. They listen to the solemn words, and when the time comes, they rise, heads bowed. Some are weeping, overcome with the air of grief. Some are pale, stricken. Some are not here, because they are at home, celebrating the death of a villainous tyrant, and who can hold that against them if they deem it to be so?

Someone lifts their hand and magicks a wreath, and others follow suit, magical items drifting through the air and wreaths floating to rest gently on the two bodies. And then they turn, and the roar of the flames echoes across the grounds, the heat searing their backs.

(One day, everyone around Baz will be dead, and he will be the only one left alive.)

He clutches Simon’s arm and Simon grips his hand, both holding on a little tighter.

_It’s okay, little puff._

_You’ll be all right._

They watch the smoke curl into the sky. Simon’s eyes must be burning, because it’s a bright, clear day, but he doesn’t pull his gaze away until the grey disappears and the sky is a crystalline blue again.


End file.
